


The Constant

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AOS Brotp Week, Gen, main character: fitz's insecurities, mama may, vaguely early season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9843350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: “So you were angry,” she says, filling the kettle with water, “and you yelled. And now … you’re less angry?”He turns around so he can lean against the counter, crossing his arms tightly. He doesn’t look at her, just gazes somewhere toward the far side of the room. “No,” he admits. “But I wasn’t- I wasn’t—” He wets his lips. “I’m not angry ather.”-May and Fitz have a talk about Daisy leaving.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so look originally this was gonna be a bus kids thing, and it kind of morphed into a mayfitz thing, which, like, it's me, so of course it did 
> 
> for aosbrotpweek day 2 - fanon brotp ! 
> 
> this takes place in 4a shortly after Daisy gets back

“Sorry,” Daisy gasps, her whole body clenching in a brief panic. Fitz had surprised her in the kitchen—she’d flinched, sloshing coffee on his shirt.

He huffs out a sigh, looking down at the stain. But May could clearly see that the frustration on his face had been there before the spill. “It’s alright—”

“No, no, I- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean- You just- I-I’ll go, sorry.”

Daisy quickly moves out of the kitchen, head ducked, coffee gripped tight between her hands. Perhaps luckily, there was no one around to witness the scene, besides May, who sits at the table, sipping tea.

Fitz growls something beneath his breath, rips a paper towel from the holder a little too forcefully. He wets it in the sink and starts dabbing at his shirt, all the while muttering. About what, May can’t hear.

Resigned, May stands. It pains her to get involved, but there’s clearly something wrong here. She hasn’t seen Daisy so skittish in a long time. Maybe ever. And Fitz—well, he’s always grumpy. But something about this doesn’t sit right on her tongue.

May first makes her way to the cupboard, pulls out a bottle of vinegar, and pours some on a washcloth. Fitz crinkles his nose when she offers it over.

“I hate the smell of vinegar.”

She offers it again. “You want that stain to come out?”

He takes the cloth reluctantly, face pinched in disgust as he dabs his shirt.

May leans back against the counter, watching him for a moment. “So what exactly did you say to her?”

Fitz stills, glancing up. “What’d she tell you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then how’d you—”

She raises an eyebrow, and he cuts himself off.

“Right. Spy stuff.”

“No, you two are just being painfully obvious about it.”

He lets out a bitter chuckle. “That bad?”

“That bad.”

He goes back to dabbing at his shirt. The stain is blotting away. “I … I yelled at her. A little while ago. Before she came back. Mack and I found her and I- I yelled. I told her that she turned her back on us.”

“Because you think she did?”

“Because I was angry.”

“So you didn’t mean it?”

The stain is barely visible now, and he tosses the rag into the sink a little more forcefully than necessary, then grips the edge. “I don’t know if—” He sighs. “I don’t know.”

She knows he came in here for tea, so she turns around and starts gathering the items necessary to make it. Take a little of the focus off of him, a little of the pressure. He’s always more comfortable when people aren’t watching. He won’t like the tea the way she makes it, of course, because she doesn’t add all that milk and sugar, but he’ll drink it anyway. He might complain, but he’ll drink it.

“So you were angry,” she says, filling the kettle with water, “and you yelled. And now … you’re less angry?”

He turns around so he can lean against the counter, crossing his arms tightly. He doesn’t look at her, just gazes somewhere toward the far side of the room. “No,” he admits. “But I wasn’t- I wasn’t—” He wets his lips. “I’m not angry at _her_.”

Of course he isn’t. Anger rarely aims itself at the true target.

May doesn’t respond. He’ll elaborate if he wants to. Instead she turns the stove on, setting the kettle down on the warming stovetop.

“Did she think- Did she think we weren’t enough?” he asks, still aimed at the empty living room. “Did she think we wouldn’t be able to help? That we were really so ignorant as to what she was going through that- What? We would do more harm than good? Did she not trust us?”

May knows where this is going. “You mean, did she not trust _you_?”

His jaw clenches, and his gaze drops. “Yeah.”

“I don’t think that was it, Fitz.”

He’s silent for a moment, then begins, “After- After she got her powers … she was hurt, and she was scared, but she- she trusted me. She trusted me, and we got through it. Together. We could get through anything together, I know we could, but … she left. She decided we weren’t worth it, and she left us.”

“Left you,” she corrects gently.

He finally looks over at her, and there are tears brimming in his eyes.

“This isn’t just about Daisy, is it?”

His jaw trembles. He pulls in a quick breath. Slowly, he shakes his head. “You’ve read my file.”

She nods.

“Then you know … you know about my dad. You know he left. But it- it wasn’t just that one time, you know? It’s a pattern, now. Three times makes a pattern. And I-I’m the constant.”

She doesn’t say anything, just watches him carefully.

“Mum said it wasn’t my fault. When he left. But I- I knew she was lying. I’m not always good at telling, but I knew, that time. And then when Jemma- It just felt like—” He quickly moves his hand to wipe at his eyes, like he holds the childish notion that if he moves fast enough, she won’t see. He shifts, angling away from her, and then back. His fingers thrum nervously on his arm.

“You think Daisy leaving had something to do with you.”

“She was my friend. And she _left_ , she just- she took off, with no goodbye or- or- I wasn’t good enough to keep her around, I wasn’t enough, she didn’t feel safe enough—cared for enough, loved enough—to—” He cuts off abruptly, turning to her, eyes blazing. His mouth gapes open, shuts, then opens again. “What do I keep doing wrong?”

The kettle whistles, and he startles, pushing off of the counter, shoulders tight. May takes it off the burner, pours the steaming water into two mugs—one for him, one for her (her own tea has gotten cold by now). She shakes a generous helping of her favorite blend into two steepers, and places them in both the mugs. Then she turns to face him, crossing her arms. She watches his shoulders shake, his fingers grip the sleeve of his shirt. She notices that he only said three times—three times he’s been left. He’s not counting her. (She’d called it a vacation, but she’d missed a lot, she knows. Maybe too much.) She thinks she’s grateful for that, though she doesn’t know why she’s escaped blame. She knows she’d hurt him—hurt them. Still, she doesn’t regret it.

“People leave,” she says, and he turns back to face her. “And it sucks. I won’t take that away from you, it does. But people leave. That’s a part of life. Nothing you can do to change that. But it doesn’t make it your fault.”

“I’m the constant—” he argues, but she cuts him off.

“You’re always going to be the constant in your own life. Do you think it only happens to you? It doesn’t. You just can only see it then. Do you think Daisy—Daisy, of all people—hasn’t had people leave her? Do you think I haven’t? Everybody leaves. Because sometimes the only person you can live with is yourself. There’s no getting around that.”

“I wouldn’t,” Fitz says stubbornly. “I’d never leave.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know what the future holds, Fitz. And you don’t know how it’s going to affect you. One day you might run into a problem even you can’t solve, and for a while, you might have to go. And that won’t make you a bad person. Self-preservation doesn’t make you a bad person. Everybody leaves.”

His face darkens. “So, what? You think I’m overreacting?”

“No,” she assures him. “I don’t. Just because everybody leaves, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell every time. It’s okay that you’re hurt. But I think you’re being too hard on yourself. And I think you’re taking that out on Daisy.”

He looks down to the floor. “So I should just accept it?”

“No.”

He looks back up.

“You fight it. Of course, you fight it. Fight it every time, if that’s what you think is best. I can’t promise it’ll do anything, but you try.”

“They’ll still leave.”

“Maybe. And maybe that’s for the best. But you want to actually break the cycle?”

He stares, then nods.

“You make sure they know they can always come back.”

He droops against the counter, all the fight taken out of him. “Daisy … Daisy knows.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“It doesn’t look to me like she does.”

“I didn’t mean to take it out on her,” he says, practically begging her to believe him.

She turns back to the mugs, taking the steeped leaves out and placing them in the sink. “Did you apologize?”

“No,” he states glumly.

“Then some part of you meant it.”

He watches her, then gives a reluctant nod. “I wanted her to feel as bad as I felt.”

“Do you still want her to feel that way?”

He shakes his head.

May takes both of the mugs, and puts them in his hands. She’ll make another one for herself later. “Then make sure she knows that.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Her lips quirk up in a smile. “I know.”

He smiles as well, a shy thing. “I’ll- uh- I’ll go talk to her now.”

“Change your shirt first, you smell like vinegar.”

He barks a laugh. “Right, will do.”

He turns to leave, and May starts filling the kettle with more water. He gets to the door before he stops.

“May?”

She turns to face him.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, eyebrows pinched, then says, “I’m sorry people have left you.”

That wasn’t what she’d been expecting, and it gives her pause. He continues before she can respond.

“And if I ever do, I’ll be sorry then, too.”

She watches him, then nods once. “I know.”

His lips twist, but he doesn’t say anything further, just ducks out of the room with the two cups of tea. May goes back to making her own, and wonders how she got so entangled with these people. These hurt kids. How she grew to care for them so much. Because each one of them is just an opportunity for a new wound, and she already has plenty of scars. But she’ll take the risk, for as long as they need her. (And doesn’t think about how she needs them, too.)


End file.
